Hubris
by AllisonfromRavenclaw
Summary: If I cannot hate him, I can only compensate by hating myself all the more, and I survive only by this delicate balance of contempt...I wonder if I will ever explain this to him. It is doubtful; he is not the only one suffering the damnation of hubris.
1. Author's Note

This is a rather irrelevant, angsty, Snape ficlet.  It's from the first person POV, starting with Snape, and moving on to Harry.  NOT SLASH, in case that's what you're looking for.  Basically just dealing with the psychological.  It's very intriguing, though.

Not expecting many reviews; my writing doesn't normally interest the masses, lol.  I suppose it's a tad too depressing for that.  Well, read and enjoy, if you like.  J

--Allison.

PS~  For anyone currently waiting for chapter 8 of The Upper Hand, I'm sorry to tell you it might be a damn long while.  School's a wank, and that's all I have to say.  


	2. From Antagonistic Eyes

.  
  
  
  
_Just hold on a little longer, boy…_  
  
The carriage jolts, and his bluish eyelids flicker, his breath forced out by the sudden movement of the carriage in an excruciating wheeze. His body lies draped over the seat across from me, lifeless and radiating vulnerability. His white lips are slightly parted, and every so often a breath escapes through them. A crimson trickle dances down from the corner of them, outlining the still slightly boyish curve of his face, and forming a bead at his chin. It drops onto my cloak, which is rumpled over most of his frail body. It is amazing, really, how different he looks from this perspective.  
  
I am used to seeing him through narrowed eyes, my persona precisely calculated to the perfect key of intimidation. Intimidation, of course, to belie the utter threat he poses to my sanity with every word he speaks. Every move he makes, and I watch him watching me. Hating me. Just as he was destined to do since before his birth. It is not unexpected, and I do not encourage him to act otherwise. I have never hurt him, but I made sure he expected me to. He loathes me, and I feed off of his loathing just as I have fed off of the loathing of every person who has come into my life. It is my sagacity, to be so hated. It reminds me of my place in the world. He reminds me of my place in the world, and that is why I hate him. If I cannot hate him, I can only compensate by hating myself all the more, and I survive only by this delicate balance of contempt.  
  
And now… disarranged. Discombobulated. He poses no threat now, across from me, wheezing and jerking limply with the carriage. He is dependent upon me to survive, just as I have been dependent upon him for the past four years, if only in a slightly different way. His hubris would not allow him to admit it, but he is delicate. Oh, so delicate. He trusts even me. Correction; he _trusted_ me. Whether this trust has withstood tonight's events has yet to be confirmed. I threw off the balance. I hurt him.  
  
I hurt him to save his life, though he may never understand that, and I don't expect him to. But doesn't he realize that he has been hurting me every day of his life, saving my life? I hurt him to the point of death, maybe, but he will not die. He will be healed, if only physically. I wonder if I will ever explain this to him. It is doubtful; he is not the only one who suffers the damnation of hubris.  
  
Why do I pity him? He has suffered no more than me! It was nothing that I have never encountered. I suffer the same fate, day after day; only my resilience seems to be far more developed than his. I was always so _good_ at torture… So many different tactics within the art of Cruciatus. So many different ways to make it _hurt_.  
  
And it does hurt him. It still hurts him in his unconsciousness. It lingers in his dreams, probably. I wonder if he sees my eyes, black, glinting carelessly from beneath a deep hood as he writhes at my feet, a singsong of laughter surrounding him. Poor boy. Poor, goddamn boy, always getting in the way.  
  
We have arrived at the school. The carriage stops. Dumbledore is waiting, looking high-strung and exhausted at the same time, his lines of care deepened immeasurably. Beside him stands Black, who will probably proceed to kill me when I step out of the safety of this vehicle. He is safe to stand undisguised, as the school is currently devoid of students and most staff.  
  
I make a motion with my wand, and the boy's body lifts slowly from the seat, his arms drooping, his head lolling back. I close my eyes, and turn the door's handle. I step out, and his corpse-like silhouette floats out behind me.  
  
"_Bastard!_" Black's voice hisses, as he rushes past me to take his godson into his arms.  
  
"Severus," Dumbledore whispers as I stride past him. I do not acknowledge him. "Severus, wait."  
  
I don't hear anything but the word _bastard_ echoing repeatedly through my head. _Bastard, wait_. I stop, but do not turn around.  
  
"You did everything you could—"  
  
"_BASTARD!_"  
  
"That's enough, Sirius!"  
  
"I'm going inside, headmaster."  
  
"Severus, Harry is going to wake up tomorrow morning without any idea why this has happened to him. He needs you to be there, to explain—"  
  
"Why don't you have Black explain to him? He seems to have the gist of it."  
  
"That isn't funny, Severus."  
  
"It wasn't intended to be."  
  
"Promise me you'll be in the hospital wing tomorrow morning."  
  
"I'm going to bed."  
  
"Severus!"  
  
"Tell him what you want. I will not force my presence upon him. Goodnight, headmaster."  
  
"_Don't walk away like you aren't responsible for this, you cringing piece of shit—_"  
  
"SIRIUS, STOP! Severus, wait…"  
  
But I am already gone.


	3. The Victim's Point of View

Oh, a thousand knives, a million white-hot flames, a tsunami of agony gnashing through my body, shredding my sanity; my eyes roll back, pleading for me to slip back into sleep, where the pain is nothing but a surreal and disconnected fog.  Oh, oh that I could just _sleep_.  I have not slept peacefully in ages.

My eyes are watering, my body convulsing, drawn up toward the ceiling by contracting muscles from my center of gravity.  I don't know if I'm responding to a dream, or a memory, or if it has never ended.  Or if it never even began; simply existing all my life, as though I had never known anything else.

And voices, less than soothing, cutting through this night of pain like the edge of a razor, glinting like a beacon of escape just out of my reach.  Are they really there?

"Harry!  Why is he—what's wrong with him?  _Why can't he hear me?_"

I can hear you, whoever you are.  I wish I could tell you that, but I can't seem to control any part of me at all.  Am I screaming, or am I past that point yet?  Is that high, shrill sound just the ringing in my ears, or the echo of long-ago, soon-ago, ever-continuing laughter?  Please, just make that sound go away, and I'll be fine.

"Get Severus in here."

"NO!  Don't get him, Poppy.  _Keep him the HELL out of here_—"

No, please, please don't… 

"Sirius, stop this nonsense at once!  Poppy, would you kindly go alert Severus that his presence is requested—no, _demanded_ in the hospital wing immediately.  If he doesn't answer, go into his rooms.  Drag him out of bed, if you have to."

Please don't let him in here, please don't let him near me, please just let him stay away… 

"Yes, headmaster."

Never have the sounds of retreating footsteps and a door swinging shut brought such a weight of dread upon me.

"Dumbledore, Snape has no business in here!  How can you force Harry to face him after what the bastard—"

"Sirius, listen to me.  I know that you are panicked, but you cannot outlet your panic with blame!  Severus never intended to hurt Harry—"

"_THEN WHAT IN GOD'S NAME DID HE INTEND TO DO???_"

"His explanation is thorough, I assure you, but I think it best he explain to Harry first."

"I will not let him anywhere close to my godson while I'm here!"

"Then you'd better, leave, Sirius."

"If you think—"

"Sirius.  Go."

"…What?"

"I don't want you in here right now.  I'm sorry.  You can come back later, when this business is complete.  As for now, you need to leave."

"I can't believe you're doing this!  I can't…I…"

I am listening with all my might, but I only here snippets of this conversation, the bits between each wave of torture.  I don't want Sirius to leave.  He's the only one who cares, the only one who understands…

"Out, Sirius.  Now."

There is a moment of silence, in which I can only imagine the facial expressions being exchanged.  I hear a faint gasp of breath from Sirius, and another low, vocal sound, before yet another pair of feet leave this room.  How many people are in here?  How many witnesses…?

Another lifetime of silent, ripping pain.  I can't sort reality from the delusional.  Did that conversation really happen?  Am I really feeling any pain at all?  _Is there anything left in this existence but torment_?

The door, slowly swinging open again.  Another set of footsteps, approaching my bed.  Only one pair.  Even through my pain, I hear a disconnected, faint whimper escape my lips.

"Severus."  A low, mournful affirmation.

"…Dear god…" A voice that sends chills throughout my pain-riddled body.

"I'm going to leave you alone with him now."

NO!  Don't leave, please don't leave him here with me, please, please, please, please…no… "What am I supposed to do?"  These words are a barely comprehensible whisper. "Just talk to him, Severus." 

The sound of retreating footsteps and swinging doors will forever haunt my nightmares.

Silence.  A creak of the chair by my bed.  _He's too close, oh god, oh god…_My body tenses again, waiting for more pain, for more agony, for more ceaseless death, to be taunted, to be shamed, for anything… And slowly, slowly, I relax.  Nothing has happened.  No pain, no humiliation, nothing.  Perhaps he left?  Maybe, maybe in my taught awareness, I missed the sound of _his_ retreating footsteps!  Please…?

"…Potter?"

I can feel myself flinch.  Well, hey, at least I've got some sort of sensory control by now.  I can flinch.  I can cringe.  How appropriate.

"Can you hear me?"

Does he honestly expect me to respond?  Fucker.  Please let him give up and leave.

"I know you can, because you seem to jerk every time I talk."

Nice of you to point that out.

"Tell me you can hear me."

Why?  Maybe if I just pretend—

"_Tell me_."

I whimper again, an involuntary instinct of fear, and there is a long, heavy pause.

"Good enough," he says quietly.

Quite suddenly, I feel cold fingertips against my face.  My whole body convulses again, trying to writhe away from his hands.  It is a futile effort.

"Does that hurt?  Answer me!  Am I hurting you?"

A realization:  "N-no…"

I can't believe I just answered him.  Idiot!  _Imbecile!_

"That's right."  Slowly, I feel the palm of his hand meet the pale, sweaty skin of my cheek.  "I'm not hurting you.  How many times in the past four years have I had you alone?  How many times have I threatened you?  Of those times, Potter, how many times have I actually hurt you?  I have certainly had the opportunity."

I do not answer, feigning deafness again, though my mind is struggling to accept his plea.  I hate him infinitely.  He does not remove his hand from my face, despite my strong and profane telepathic messages.

"Open your eyes.  Look at me."

Absolutely _not_.

"Or are you too intimidated?  Better to face me with your eyes open, Potter.  Then at least you'll know what's coming."

My eyes _fly_ open.  I shouldn't have opened them.  I wasn't really prepared to see his face again.  Nevertheless, it materializes before me, unmasked.  His eyes are still the same emotionless dark tunnels they were the first time I ever laid eyes on him.  I can't determine if his eyes are still glittering with menace, or if they ever were.  The facial expressions of Severus Snape are dependent solely upon the viewer's interpretation, it seems.

The skin over his cheekbones is drawn tight, and his mouth is in a thin, white, straight line.  His eyebrows are at a peculiarly high tilt, encouraging a small vertical crease between them that I have never seen him wear before.  His hand still rests on my face, unmoving.  I can't bear this for much longer, and so I try to close my eyes again, squeeze them shut until he just…goes away.

"No."  Is that all?  Barely a protest, really.  So why did I acquiesce?

"Why?"  I didn't really mean to say that out loud.  I don't even know what I meant.  Why does my voice sound so pathetically pubescent?

"Why what?"  Oh, really.  Don't make it any easier for me, or anything.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Quit answering me with questions!!!"  That was an odd outburst.  Oh, this is fabulous.  My tone has gone from pubescent to breaking into a sob.  "I don't want to answer questions, I don't want…I don't know, just stop!"  I really have no idea at all what I am saying.

That vertical crease deepens.  This infuriates me, though I do not know why.

"STOP IT!"

He has apparently misinterpreted my meaningless interjection.  His hand snaps away from my face as though I have shocked him.  I feel mixed feelings of relief and terror with the sudden lack of contact.  My eyes are beginning to burn.

"You don't know why I did it?"

That better have been a goddamn rhetorical question.  I do not respond.

"Do you realize what would have happened to you if I hadn't stepped in?  You'd be dead now, Potter.  Mangled, bloodied, shamed, and _dead_."

"Three out of four—not bad," I hiss.  "Maybe you don't get it, but I think I'd have been better off with all four."

"You think death would have been a courtesy?  I'm not going to teach your morals or 'life lessons' here, Potter, but I'll tell you the truth.  I'll tell you whatever will get through your head, so I'll tell you whatever would get through _my_ head:  It'd be damn hard to get revenge if you were dead."

My retaliation is instant and perhaps slightly irrational:  "Revenge on who?  You?"

He shrugs.  "Maybe."

"Did you enjoy it?"

His eyes widen at my abruptness, that crease deepens still further, and his mouth falls halfway open.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't lie!  Don't act like you didn't hear me!  Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it.  You've wanted that for four…well, probably since I was born, right?  So did you like it?  You know, watching me scream and jerk and cry?  Making me beg for your god damned mercy?"

"Is that really what you think?"  Why is he speaking so softly?  I wish he would just start yelling.

"Is that what you think I really think?"  I'll play his game, then.  I will not be the victim any longer.

"Don't ask meaningless questions!" he snaps.

"Don't give meaningless answers."

"What the hell do you want me to say, Potter?  Any truthful answer I could give you would not satisfy you.  Do you want me to say that it was the most satisfying thing I have ever done in my life?  Do you want me to tell you that I absolutely adore cruelly torturing helpless children, that it's _fun_?  What would be easiest for you to accept, because apparently the fact that perhaps _I_ was also a victim in this situation is a concept that you cannot grasp.  Why must I accommodate to _your_ angst?"

I thought I wanted him to get angry.  Now that I have my wish, I am reconsidering it.  The fact is, Severus Snape makes a lot more sense when he's about to explode, and sometimes, making more sense is not a good thing.  I try to interject, but he interrupts me again.

"You are an ungrateful little bastard, do you know that?  I have made endless sacrifices for your well being, most of which you will never be aware of.  Because it's easier for _you_ that way.  _Why do you deserve the escape of death while I am forced to live out this retched life merely for the purposes of others?_  Would that I was in your place, Potter.  You can pity yourself all you want; you have a wide selection of places to cast the blame for your horrible, horrible life.  I can only blame myself.  Do you know what that's like?  Do you know what it's like to wake up every morning knowing that you don't deserve _anything_ you've got, but selfishly always wishing you could receive some kind of appreciation?  If you think you've been through torture, you have no idea.  Physical torture is bearable.  Psychological, self inflicted torture is irrevocable, and incurable, and _inescapable_.  Who do I have to blame but myself???  Tell me, Potter!"

I stare at him, disbelievingly.  Does he really want me to answer?

"I..I don't…"

"You don't know."  Suddenly, he laughs.  "Of course you don't know.  You're fifteen years old.  You're a _Potter_.  You'll never know.  That's not your place in the world."

"It's nobody's place in the world."  What made me say that?

Now it is his turn to stare.

"How long have you been waiting to say that, Professor Snape?"

He blinks, and the blood drains from his already pallid complexion.  He stands abruptly.

"I am sorry I hurt you, Potter," he says in a rehearsed and stiff manner.

"No you're not," I say quietly.  "But I know what you mean."

His eyes darken (apparently they are capable of expression after all).

"You will never know," he mutters.

Without another word, he strides silently from the room, his black robes flowing behind him familiarly.  I wonder if our conversation has made any difference at all.  I know the answer:  it wasn't meant to change anything.  It was meant to restore a mutual hatred, that's all.  A balance.  And I realize now that maybe I need that balance just as much as he does.  The world would fall to pieces around us if we didn't have our balances, however irrelevant or even unfair they may seem.

This is all so much more complicated than I could ever have imagined.  I think that trying to understand it, or 'fix' it, might destroy me, in mind if not in body.  He's right:  affliction to the body is nothing compared to affliction of the mind.  We all have our afflictions.  I think I might understand that a little bit now.  Then again, maybe he's right about something else.  I'm still not sure if he was talking to me exclusively.  

Maybe I'll never know.  


End file.
